


Forced

by fuzipenguin



Series: Crossing Lines [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Fuck Or Die, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Violence, Other, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Spark Sex, Sticky Sex, Torture, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:44:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Frag him. Or he dies. An easy choice to make, don't you think?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forced

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/gifts).



> In the first part of Went Too Far, Sideswipe admits to raping Ratchet in order to save his life. I never wrote the scene, only alluded to it, because at the time, I couldn't decide what I wanted the twins' relationship with Ratchet to be before Ratchet's capture. Well, I finally decided. This is also completely from Ratchet's POV, as he never wanted to speak directly in Went Too Far.

     He keeps losing time. Small amounts of it, but the pain is excruciating so it’s not entirely unexpected. It doesn’t help that they destroy his optics either; after that, things are even harder to keep track of. 

     Sound echoes around him. There had been at least a dozen Decepticons present before they had blinded him and judging by the volume of the shouting, that original number has at least doubled. It makes it difficult to follow individual conversations, to hear the suggestions from Megatron or the discussions between StopGap and Hook on the best ways to cause Ratchet pain. 

     On second thought, maybe he’s glad that he can’t really hear that sort of talk any more. Knowing what they are going to do to him prior to them doing it doesn’t lessen the pain in any way. 

     Sideswipe’s voice is always easily identifiable, however. It’s difficult to ignore; the frontliner has been reaching impressive volumes as he hollers curses at the Decepticons. But every few minutes, Sideswipe speaks more softly, pleads for them to let Ratchet go. Ratchet has to strain to hear these words over the sound of the crowd, afraid to lose even this tenuous connection with the familiar. 

     The begging breaks Ratchet’s spark, more than anything else the Decepticons have done to him. 

     “Are you enjoying our hospitality, Ratchet?” a voice suddenly purrs in Ratchet’s audial. Ratchet jerks in his bonds, trying to get away from the warmth of Megatron’s ex-vents bathing the side of his helm. 

     Ratchet’s answer emerges as a spiraling cry as one of his torturers does… something… to his left knee which sends licks of flame up his back struts. 

     “You are? Good!” Megatron exclaims, his voice soft and pleased. Ratchet moans as he feels a hand slide over the top of his helm, clawed digits trailing lightly over his forehelm and dangerously close to the pits of agony formerly called his optics. 

     “Well, I have more treats for you,” Megatron promises. “It’s so rare that we have guests nowadays; we know how to treat them right, don’t we?” Megatron asks, the heat from his frame fading slightly as he shifts away, speaking to those surrounding them.  

     The crowd cheers in answer as Megatron strokes a hand down Ratchet’s face. The Decepticon leader’s thumb briefly digs into Ratchet’s right optic socket before painting wetness across the cheek below it. Ratchet grunts, straining to turn his head away, but the bonds hold firm, and Megatron repeats the process with the other empty socket. 

     A finger brushes down Ratchet’s nasal ridge before bopping the end of it. Ratchet can’t help his snarl. 

     “So feisty!” Megatron murmurs once more into Ratchet’s audial. “I like that.” The words are accompanied by a lick of Megatron’s glossa, and Ratchet shudders.

      The hand continues to caress his faceplates, occasionally dipping into an aching socket in counterpart to what feels like knives being driven into the bottoms of his feet. At one point,  Megatron’s fingers drift close to his lipplates, and Ratchet snaps his denta, trying to catch one of the digits. He misses of course; he can only move his helm the barest fraction of an inch.  

      Megatron chuckles as he grips Ratchet’s chin, the fingers exerting enough pressure to dent the thinner armor there. “Very feisty.”

     “You know, I’ve heard stories,” Megatron continues idly, between Ratchet’s cries of pain. “They say that you used to be a cybercat in the berth, back in your Academy days… I wonder if that’s still true…”

      The hand slides down his throat, gripping brutally tight for one alarming second before moving on. The heavy, broad appendage finally comes to a rest atop his chest, directly over his spark. A claw taps at the central seam of his chassis plating, and Ratchet whimpers, suddenly scared. They wouldn’t. Would they?

    “Hook and StopGap put a lot of effort into you; I think a little reciprocation is only fair, Ratchet,” Megatron whispers, the claw tip wriggling deeper and deeper into the seam. “So… entertain us.”

     It takes both StopGap’s and Hook’s combined efforts to pry his chest plating apart. Ratchet struggles to no avail, and the gathering of mechs howl in glee at the first glimmer of his sparklight. 

     It takes some time, but they finally pry him completely open. They do something, tear something inside, so when they remove their hands, he’s still exposed. Ratchet thinks he should know what they did to prevent him from closing his own chestplates, but the pain and the panic is erasing his processing power. 

     His interface cover is easier; Megatron merely presses against it with enough force to buckle the center. From there, it’s easy for him to peel back the popped up edges. Megatron tears it fully away and there is another roar from the crew. Someone growls, ‘no, it’s mine!’ and Ratchet realizes that Megatron had thrown the cover into the crowd. 

     Like a trophy. 

     Ratchet is shivering now, pain coursing through him in waves, embarrassment a close second as damp ocean air brushes over his exposed interface equipment and spark casing. Megatron’s hand brushes over Ratchet’s recessed spike, knuckle nudging at his valve entrance. 

     Megatron plays there with inexplicably gentle touches as StopGap and Hook resume their activities farther up Ratchet’s body. They rip away the armor covering his hips and sides. Motion cables are tugged taut to the point of breaking. Then his torturers let the cables snap back into place, laughing as he moans. 

     One of them moves up his body, dipping something that crackles electricity into the bigger joints of his right arm until he feels circuits crumple and burn in both his shoulder and elbow. The hateful thing moves down to circle his wrist, and he moans in panicked dread. Never mind the pain they could create from the finely tuned sensors in his fingers; a medic’s hands are his livelihood. 

     Ratchet feels his ventilations hitch and pick up speed, his fans whining a protest as they attempt to cool his overly stressed frame. Warnings from nearly every one of his systems are popping up so rapidly that Ratchet begins to just shunt them aside instead of looking at them. 

     The pain builds and builds, his vocalizer spitting static instead of screams now. He’s teetering on the edge to shutdown when all of a sudden, everything stops.

     The hands still and then move away, the tip of the electrical prod teasingly trailing against his palm before turning off with a noisy hum. The sudden cessation of pain is almost agony in itself; what are they planning next? His spark, completely revealed by its cracked open casing, spins and rotates too quickly from terror. 

     Suddenly, the restraints on his legs are loosened, and he gasps in shock as pinched circulatory lines open, flooding his lower extremities with tingling coolant. Rough hands grasp his thighs and shove outward, his hip components grinding together in protest. There is a clang and clatter of rusty metal as the table beneath his aft shifts, dropping away. His lower legs are repositioned, feet guided into what feels like stirrups and shins tied back down to the table supports. 

     A shiver of cool air is almost immediately followed by too-warm metal nudging against the tops of his inner thighs. A deep bass rumble vibrates through Ratchet from the contact, and he can feel what’s left of his plating crawl with disgust as he realizes the Decepticon leader has fit himself between Ratchet’s legs. 

     “Beautiful, Ratchet,” Megatron praises, hands burning as they squeeze Ratchet’s mangled knee joints, forcing a burst of static out of his vocalizer. He can’t even scream properly, too many vocal lines snapped and broken. 

     “We’re going to take you… all of us… one by one,” Megatron promises. He leans forward, his abdominal plating grating uncomfortably against Ratchet’s exposed array. “While Hook and StopGap have been playing, the rest have been making a list. Who gets you first. Then second. And then third… you get the idea.” The shouts and jeers of the surrounding crew quiet with hushed anticipation as Megatron speaks. 

     “Nnnno…” Ratchet moans, stifling a cry as Megatron grinds against Ratchet’s pelvic region, sharp amour pieces scratching and tearing at his delicate interface equipment. 

     “Oh, yes. Everyone who wants a piece of you will get one. I provide for my mechs, you know,” Megatron says. 

     “Leave him alone!” Sideswipe suddenly shouts. Ratchet startles at the sound of the frontliner’s voice; he had been so wrapped up in the agony of his frame that he had actually forgotten about his co-captive. 

     “You can’t… he’s _old_ , come on! You’re gonna break him and then not everyone will get their fun. Wouldn’t you rather have someone who will last a little longer?”

 _Sideswipe, no,_ Ratchet thinks, spark shrinking in on itself.

     Megatron stills, claws embedded deep into Ratchet’s knees. “You… have a point,” he muses. 

     Keening, Ratchet tries to shake his head, and his lipplates tremble as he tries to force whole words past them. “P-p-pleassse… n-no.”

     “Oh yes!” Megatron says in delight. Ratchet feels a sinking sensation at the devious tone. “Bring him here!” 

     Megatron’s claws pull out of his knee joints with a screech as he pushes himself off Ratchet. The loud hum of the Sideswipe’s cage bars abruptly fade, and then Ratchet hears a great deal of creative cursing and stomping footsteps. 

     “Leave him alone,” Sideswipe growls, his voice rapidly getting closer. “You have me, let him go.” From the creaking and scuffing of metal, Ratchet estimates that Sideswipe and his guards are standing only a foot or so off to Ratchet’s right. 

     “You make an excellent argument, warrior. Ratchet’s an old model. Look how much he’s fallen apart already,” Megatron says, hand dropping to Ratchet’s hip to dig his claws in. Sideswipe snarls, and there are the sounds of a brief struggle before a thud shakes the supports of Ratchet’s table. He briefly worries about Sideswipe, but the familiar timbre of his engine, even distorted by anger, is reassuring. 

     “We probably aren’t going to get our money’s worth out of him; not with all of us anyway. But you…” Megatron’s voice drops into a low, seductive purr, “… the sight of _you_ … a righteous Autobot… fragging one of your own officers… that will be something for all to enjoy.”

     Ratchet goes motionless, an icy-cold dread worming its way through his spark. Surely he doesn’t mean…

     For a long moment, there is quiet in the room. Then Sideswipe lets out a choked cry. 

     “No! You…no!” he yells, sounding as if he’s struggling again. “You Pit-spawned son of a…!”

     Sideswipe trails off with a gasp as the whine of a weapon powering up fills Ratchet’s audials. It’s familiar; Megatron’s fusion cannon, Ratchet finally realizes. 

     “Yes,” Megatron says, drawing out the word with relish. “Or he dies. It’s an easy choice to make.”

     “You can’t… it’s… the bounty…” Sideswipe protests haltingly. 

     “Capture only, yes, I know. I can change my mind, can’t I?” Megatron retorts. “Now decide. Death or a quick little frag? Your tactician is in contact with Soundwave as we speak, discussing an exchange.  If your Autobots have what we want, why, you both go free. Alive. If you take too long… well.  How would they react if they knew you caused your precious CMO’s death? All because you couldn’t get it up?” Megatron asks smugly.

     There is a long minute of silence, other than the murmur of the crowd of Decepticons. Ratchet internally begs Sideswipe to say no, to just let Megatron pull the trigger. Ratchet has never before thought of himself as a defeatist, but right now he’s just about ready to throw in the towel. 

     “Megatron,” Sideswipe says lowly, “please. Please don’t do this.”

     A roll of surprised laughter begins over Ratchet’s head, growing and growing in volume. Several others pick it up, chuckling and jeering at the ‘poor, begging Autobot’. 

     “Oh, that’s _nice_. Very sparkfelt,” Megatron remarks as his laughter trails off. “Now decide!”

     Ratchet can feel Sideswipe’s hesitation from here. “Sssides… juss lll…et… himmm…kk…kll…” Ratchet manages, the words nearly obscured by static. 

     “No!” Sideswipe shouts, before Ratchet can finish. “No! I’ll do it! Let me go, you assholes!” There are more grunts and scuffs of footsteps before something falls against his side. Ratchet whimpers at the shock wave it sends through his frame. 

     “Slaggit! Sorry, Ratchet,” Sideswipe hisses, quickly scrambling away. 

     “And if I do this… you’ll leave him alone after, right?” Sideswipe demands. Ratchet feels the air currents move as Sideswipe moves down the side of the table and around Ratchet’s outflung leg. Sideswipe steps into the cradle of Ratchet’s thighs, digit tips lightly touching the areas on Ratchet’s legs that are still protected by armor. There are precious few such spots left. 

     “Of course,” Megatron purrs. “Good entertainment deserves a reward, after all.” 

     Ratchet feels Sideswipe’s core temperature spike in reaction to Megatron’s words and knows the frontliner is probably struggling to not react. 

     “ _Entertainment_ ,” Sideswipe snarls. “Give me my weapons back, and I’ll give you a good show.” 

     Megatron laughs again. “I’m sure you would. You and your brother certainly give my fliers a challenge.” There is a pause before Megatron speaks again. “Maybe after. You and I.”

     There is an excited murmur among the mechs present at the prospect. Ratchet feels a sinking dread at the thought; Sideswipe would give it his all and likely perish in the attempt. Maybe if it were both twins, they might have a chance. But despite Sideswipe’s considerable abilities, Megatron is heavier and stronger. And meaner. 

     “But later,” Megatron continues. “Now get on with it!” There is a warning rev of his fusion cannon, and Sideswipe lunges forward, protectively covering Ratchet. 

     “And make it good!” Megatron says, his fusion cannon powering down as Sideswipe vibrates angrily above Ratchet. He hears Megatron’s heavy tread back away, and Sideswipe relaxes fractionally. 

     A choked sound then emerges from Sideswipe’s vocalizer, confusing Ratchet, until gentle fingers lightly trace the torn edges of Ratchet’s plating, the multiple leaking and sparking wounds. It had been one thing to see it happen from across the room, Ratchet realizes, but now Sideswipe is up close and personal with the results of Hook’s and StopGap’s efforts. 

     “Oh, Ratch,” Sideswipe whispers, sounding sick.  “This is…” There is the click of Sideswipe’s vocalizer shutting off and then resetting. “This is bad, not gonna lie,” Sideswipe admits. “But you probably already know that. 

     “Could be worse, though,” he says, his voice getting stronger, more reassuring. “They know what they’re doing. Slaggin’ _Cons_ ,” Sideswipe spits. “It’s mostly cosmetic. Nothing you won’t offline over. Though I know it’s gotta hurt like a bitch.

     “It’ll be ok,” Sideswipe murmurs as he leans forward, ventilations ghosting over Ratchet’s optical sockets as Sideswipe inspects the damage there. “It’ll… we’ll go home soon, and it’ll be ok.”

     Ratchet knows that Sideswipe knows better. But Ratchet appreciates the sentiment anyway. He’s also incredibly thankful for the respite from active pain, the familiar warmth of the frontliner blanketing Ratchet’s front. Ratchet knows it will make the return of the torture ten times worse, but Ratchet will enjoy what peace he can for as long as he can. 

     “’Get on with it,’ he says,” Sideswipe murmurs as he continues to carefully explore Ratchet’s wounds. “How the fuck am I supposed to do this?” 

     Out of all the Autobots on Earth, Sideswipe and his brother picked up human slang, particularly the profanity, the quickest. Jazz was a close second. And oh, Jazz. Ratchet wishes Jazz were here to break them out, to whisk them away and stop all this. Surely someone would be coming soon?

     “He’s not wrong,” Sideswipe continues, a note of panic in his voice, “I’m gonna get you killed because I can’t…”

 _Get it up_ , Ratchet finishes silently, remembering Megatron’s earlier turn of phrase. 

     “s’ok,” Ratchet grinds out, feeling the urge to reassure Sideswipe. 

     “Having problems?” Megatron inquires, all politeness. 

     “I got this!” Sideswipe snaps. “Forgive me if I’m not as used to raping my comrades as the rest of you!” There are some chuckles in the crowd, others throwing out encouraging suggestions. 

     Then there is a tentative brush against Ratchet’s inner thigh, high near the joining of leg to pelvis. Ratchet can’t help it; he jerks with a startled whimper. The touch immediately disappears. 

     “Sorry, sorry,” Sideswipe whispers frantically. “But I got to… Primus… what… what about this?” 

     An instant later, there is pressure and heat at Ratchet’s mouth. Sideswipe’s lips, Ratchet realizes. They are slick, as if Sideswipe had nervously run his glossa over them just seconds before taking the plunge. 

     Sideswipe stays like that, motionless with his mouth pressed against Ratchet’s, just the meeting of thin, soft plating. There are catcalls rising up around them, more encouragements. Ratchet’s spark fractionally slows its frantic spin; this isn’t too bad. Better Sideswipe than a random spectator. Or does that make it worse? Ratchet can’t tell. 

     Sideswipe lifts his head a little and then comes back down, his mouth tilted to the side just so. The tip of his glossa makes a tiny swipe across Ratchet’s upper lipplates, and they both startle, Sideswipe jerking back. 

     “Idiot,” Sideswipe says in self-chastisement, shakily ex-venting over Ratchet’s lips. Sideswipe immediately presses forward again, more confidently. This time, he deliberately flicks his glossa against Ratchet’s lipplates, stroking against the closed seam. 

     Ratchet makes a surprised noise and lets his lips part. Sideswipe’s kiss is not arousing, per se, but it’s not painful either. It’s a relief to give up control to Sideswipe, to let him take what he needs. Some would say he’s a fool to do so, but Ratchet trusts the twins explicitly. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker have watched over him countless times on the battlefield; he knows Sideswipe will take care of him even in this. 

     The kiss continues for a while, Sideswipe gradually exploring deeper into Ratchet’s mouth. It’s obvious that Sideswipe knows what he’s doing; there is something that Sideswipe does with Ratchet’s glossa that would have had Ratchet perking up with interest if his partner and the location had been different. 

     As it is, Ratchet feels detached from the situation, almost as if he’s been separated from his body and is watching from a distance. He suspects he’s experiencing the equivalent of human shock. No one is hurting him anymore however, so he is content to let the brief worry over his lack of reaction slip away. 

     Relaxed as Ratchet becomes, it cannot last. Eventually, the cat calls turn into disappointed complaints. The Decepticons want more than just boring kissing, and they are not hesitant to say so. Amidst the shouts, the sound of Megatron’s heavy footsteps approaches.  

     “Beautiful as this may be,” Megatron drawls, “were you planning on moving along any time soon?”

     Sideswipe’s engine rumbles in warning, and he lifts his head. “You do not rush an artist at work,” he says, voice dropping into a lower register. The cadence of the words and the chill to the tone feels more like something Sunstreaker would say. Ratchet dimly wonders if it is something the yellow twin has actually said in their past lives. 

     “Then continue. _Artist._ But we expect a masterpiece by the time you’re through. And if the crew doesn’t receive one…” Megatron trails off suggestively as he walks away. 

     “I’ll give you a masterpiece,” Sideswipe mutters darkly, too low for anyone other than himself or Ratchet to hear. Ratchet suspects that the masterpiece Sideswipe is referring to has nothing to do with paints or interfacing, but rather body limbs and energon splashes. 

     He can actually feel it when Sideswipe turns his regard back to Ratchet. “So… looks like we need to move this along,” he says nervously. “I’m gonna…” He never finishes the sentence, instead going back to kissing Ratchet. 

     The kiss now has a harder edge to it, almost desperate. It’s still not painful, so Ratchet forces his own lips and glossa to participate. A kiss is easy; he can pretend that his partner is someone of his own choosing. Maybe he’ll even be able to gather some wisps of charge to help prepare his body for taking an unwanted spike. Ratchet has no doubt that it will happen; if Sideswipe can’t perform, there are still many willing and eager partners standing only feet away.   

     Sideswipe breaks off from the kiss and hovers over Ratchet, confusing him. There is the sense of motion between them, air currents brushing over exposed wires and circuitry. Ratchet hears a small, slick sound and then the kiss resumes. Sideswipe’s denta nip at Ratchet’s lower lip, gently, and then suddenly hard enough to almost draw energon. 

     Seconds later, Ratchet gratefully realizes it was to distract him from the shock of fingers probing at his valve. They slide around the entrance easily enough; Sideswipe must have licked his own digits to gather lubricant to ease the way. 

     Ratchet fights against tensing, but it is a losing battle. It’s been a long time since he’s taken anything other than a toy or his own fingers, and this isn’t exactly the setting he had imagined when he next took a lover. 

     A digit tip pushes past the valve’s entrance and remains there, Sideswipe making a hurt whimper against Ratchet’s lips. Ratchet knows he’s dry, and his valve has a mind of its own, clamping down frantically against the invader. 

     Sideswipe’s mouth leaves Ratchet’s with a whispered curse. The frontliner peppers a trail of kisses over Rachet’s jawline, nipping and licking down the side of his throat. Ratchet tilts his helm backwards as much as possible to allow Sideswipe room. His neck has always been particularly sensitive, and he’s desperate to take his processor off what’s happening down below. Sideswipe’s denta scrape across the large energon line below the hinge of Ratchet’s jaw, and he makes a wordless noise of encouragement.  

     As Sideswipe begins lavishing attention to the spot, Ratchet manages to marginally relax against the quiescent finger in his valve. The finger slowly withdraws, and a second glacially takes its place, introducing a fresh spot of lubricant. 

     For a foolish moment, Ratchet thinks that this might even work, given enough preparation and distraction. But then Sideswipe grunts, his body falling against Ratchet’s and provoking a strangled whine from Ratchet’s lips. 

     “You’re taking too long,” Megatron growls. Sideswipe struggles briefly until Ratchet’s pained groan freezes him in place. Ratchet hadn’t even heard the Decepticon approach.

     “Frag him. Now. Or I’ll shoot out his spark and give them the carcass. He’d still be warm for a while,” Megatron says with an evil chuckle. With another shove, Megatron takes a step back. Sideswipe remains draped across Ratchet’s frame, trembling. His faceplates are tucked against the side of Ratchet’s neck, and he is ventilating quickly, far too quickly. 

_Calm. Stay calm,_ Ratchet silently urges, well aware of Sideswipe’s previous history of rash decisions. 

     “Primus,” Sideswipe vocalizes softly against Ratchet’s audial. “ _Ratchet_. I don’t know what do to.” 

     Ratchet’s processor races frantically, knowing that any solution is a poor one. He finally settles on the least offensive. 

     “Sssparks,” he murmurs back. Sideswipe startles, yet doesn’t move away. 

     “Sparks? That’s… are you sure?”

     Spark merging is a very intimate interfacing technique normally reserved for bond mates or those in a very close relationship. Thoughts, memories, and sensations are shared across the link between the two sparks, and Ratchet has known the act to solidify some relationships and break others because of what is revealed. Ratchet isn’t surprised that Sideswipe questions him. 

     But although Ratchet has known mechs like Ironhide and Wheeljack for ages, in some ways, he is closer to the twins than his old friends. He doesn’t expect any surprises from Sideswipe. 

     At Ratchet’s small nod, Sideswipe shudders once, but draws back. A moment later, Ratchet hears the quiet sound of a latch being undone. The air around his spark chilled as soon as Sideswipe had shifted, but now it warms again, a gentle heat that moves forward in slow, lapping waves. Ratchet’s spark had been shrunk deep against the farthest edge of its crystal housing, but now it twitches forward in interest. 

     A loud cheer fills the room as soon as the Decepticons realize what is happening. Sideswipe growls a vicious curse, abruptly hunching over. The edges of Ratchet’s open chest cavity brush against Sideswipe’s retracted armor, making Ratchet shiver. Their sparks suddenly meet, the outermost edges tendriling against one another. Sideswipe freezes, his spark whirling faster at the foreign touch. 

     Ratchet’s spark, on the other hand, reaches out eagerly, surprising even himself. Although their sparks have never merged before, Ratchet is familiar with Sideswipe’s. It’s not surprising, considering how frequently he’s been in Sideswipe’s internals. 

     After the shock of first contact fades, Sideswipe shifts against Ratchet’s chest. He braces himself with forearms bracketing Ratchet’s shoulders, Sideswipe’s faceplates tucked quite firmly in the crook of Ratchet’s shoulder. It’s a little uncomfortable, what with their height differences and Ratchet’s sore frame, but the experience of encountering a new spark overrides the discomfort. 

     Bit by bit, their sparks entangle further, surface emotions beginning to transfer over the tenuous link. Ratchet knows he must be broadcasting pain, because Sideswipe winces as he settles more firmly atop Ratchet, the meeting of their plating creating a friction against Ratchet’s raw sensors. He tries to rein in those negative sensations, but there is no hiding during a merge. 

     Just like there is no masking the myriad of emotions Sideswipe is experiencing. Ratchet almost can’t keep up with the maelstorm of sympathy, shame, fury, guilt, and misery from Sideswipe’s end. Despite the prickly feel of Sideswipe’s emotions, his essence still shines through. Strength, resilience, whimsy; all the qualities that Ratchet has seen from the mech who has slowly but firmly lodged himself under Ratchet’s plating ever since their first meeting. There’s darkness there too, streaks of it woven amidst the persistence, hope, and laughter. 

     None of it is new or unexpected, and Ratchet’s spark lunges forward and clings, nearly enveloping Sideswipe’s. It’s warm and familiar and _safe_ ; so comfortable that Ratchet’s spark practically tries to burrow into Sideswipe’s. It takes a too long moment for Ratchet to feel Sideswipe’s resulting panic and alarm. 

     Ratchet’s spark loosens its grip a little, Ratchet astonishing at his own neediness.  

     Communication during a spark merge is normally a combination of feelings and images. Direct speech is possible, but takes more time and can be less truthful than an immediate strut-deep emotional response. 

     Nevertheless, words often come naturally as a supplement to the raw information exchange. 

     :Sorry! Sorry: Ratchet says, the words accompanied by spark-felt contrition. He had never before reacted so strongly in a spark merge.

     Sideswipe takes a moment, but eventually calms. :Forgiven: he replies. 

     Then he bombards Ratchet with an overwhelmingly quick stream of images from former spark merges. Ratchet is bewildered at first, but then realizes a common theme to the memories; the other participant in these merges is always the same – Sunstreaker. 

     :No one else?: Ratchet questions. 

     :No: 

     Sideswipe offers a bundle of remembered emotions: peace, completeness, love, safety. The bundle is accompanied with image after image of Sunstreaker. The information gradually peters out and then Ratchet feels a moment of hesitation and uncertainty from Sideswipe. 

     Before Ratchet can do more than offer a wisp of reassurance, more images are pushed Ratchet’s way. He is taken back as he sees himself: faceplates twisted in a scowl, a flip of a tool in his hand, mouth curving up in a wry grin.  

     Affection and friendship wind tight around the images; there is also a thin thread of anxiety and unease. Sideswipe finishes with an image of an incomplete Cybertronain-sized puzzle spread out on a table, black fingers attempting to push two pieces together. 

     It suddenly clicks what Sideswipe is trying to explain. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had been bonded from the moment of their creation. Neither of them had ever sparked merged with anyone else but each other. It probably never even occurred to them to try, and why would they? Their sparks are literally a perfect fit for each other. 

     Trying to merge with another spark must be incredibly disconcerting.

     Ratchet pulses a slow wave of apology and remorse, spark shrinking in on itself. He had hoped that this would be easier on them; but Ratchet fears this is more of a violation for Sideswipe than anything else could be. 

     Almost immediately, Sideswipe responds by surging forward and strengthening their link. An image of a sparkling cradled in its creator’s arms, another of Ratchet leaning over a prone yellow and black frame, and pulses of _lovelovelove_ hit Ratchet’s spark like a sledgehammer. 

     It shakes Ratchet to the core. He’d always felt a connection with the twins, viewing them with fond exasperation outside of the medical bay and a deep-seated concern if they were under his care. He had thought they cared about him as well; they teased him the most, left little trinkets on his office desk and always made sure to bring him his rations when he was stuck on double shifts. 

     But he had never suspected they viewed him as something of a surrogate creator. 

     He’s unable to hide how shaken he is, how joyous this makes him feel. His spark flickers and whirls in the space between their chests, an excited dance of reciprocation. Sideswipe’s spark joins in, some of his misery fading.  

     Then suddenly, it returns in full force, accompanied by an insidious guilt. This time, Sideswipe is the one to envelop Ratchet’s spark with his own. As he does, Ratchet’s awareness of his surroundings fade; his hearing of the nearby shouting dulls to a far off echo. The agony of his frame is softened, so much so that he almost feels giddy at the lessening of his discomfort. His body doesn’t feel like his own anymore, and it’s a heady relief. He barely even recognizes it when his valve is penetrated.  

     Ratchet didn’t know this could be done, this protective encasing of one spark by another. It doesn’t surprise him that the twins have discovered it, however. 

     There’s another distant sting from his groin. At the same time, Ratchet feels a twisting loathing from Sideswipe. The blanket of Sideswipe’s spark shudders, its grip on Ratchet’s slipping. Outside sound roars in for a brief moment, and Ratchet feels Sideswipe despairing, floundering. 

     Abruptly, the feel of Sideswipe intensifies, echoes. His spark pulses, deep full waves that connect them more fully with every ebb and flow. Gratitude and relief mingle with the influx of more memories. 

     At first, it is just flashes, short bits of recollection that are mostly sensation: the taste of a citrus wax on Sideswipe’s glossa, the spray of an enemy’s energon across his faceplates, the stink of a freshly opened paint pot. The memories start and stop, rush forward and creep backwards as if Sideswipe is searching for something in particular to show Ratchet. 

     Then Ratchet is falling, so quickly and so far that his processor spins, and he flinches, closing his optics. 

     When he opens them, he is nearly blinded by the full, bright light reflecting off the yellow armor of Sunstreaker’s chest. 

     The warrior is beneath Ratchet’s point of view, lying on a horizontal surface. Sunstreaker’s optics are closed as his helm tilts backwards, baring his throat. His lower lip is caught between his own denta, a small drop of energon welling up as his denta penetrates the thin plating.  

     Sound creeps in: metal rubbing rhythmically against metal, a drawn-out moan, whispered words that are barely discernible. 

     Sensation quickly follows, and Ratchet feels the hot clasp of a valve against his spike, flexing plating beneath his hands. Pleasure is coiled tight at the base of his lower back struts; his spark dances in his chest, yearning.

     The ache in his spark clues Ratchet in faster than even the glimpse of Sunstreaker’s blissed expression. Ratchet is so deep within one of Sideswipe’s memories that it’s as if Ratchet _is_ Sideswipe, touching, hearing, feeling everything as Sideswipe once had.

     Once he realizes how immersed he is, inside such a private moment between the twins, Ratchet squirms within Sideswipe’s grip, trying to back away. He doesn’t _want_ to know how well Sideswipe’s hands fit around Sunstreaker’s hips, or the sounds of their moans during the throes of passion. 

     The merge is deep now, deeper than Ratchet has ever gone before, almost to the very core of Sideswipe’s being. He’s honored that Sideswipe feels comfortable showing him this, but Ratchet’s also disturbed; this is not what his relationship with the twins is about. 

     Sideswipe floods Ratchet with apologies, undershot with guilt and betrayal. But he doesn’t let Ratchet go. 

     : _Need_ : Sideswipe stresses. He pulses a bitter mix of uncertainty and helplessness just as a faint burning sensation spreads deep within Ratchet’ pelvis. 

     Sideswipe shoves the memory back at Ratchet, surrounding it with _loveaffectionsorrysorrysorry._ The apologies are nearly constant now, a low hum of background guilt that shakes Ratchet. The torture done to his body was horrible, but nothing hurts Ratchet more than experiencing firsthand what this is doing to Sideswipe. 

     Ratchet can see the remorse and shame beginning to eat away at Sideswipe, tarnishing the bright glow of his spark. He is driven to protect Ratchet, keep him safe; it is killing Sideswipe that he has to hurt Ratchet in order to do so. But he doesn’t know what else to do and hopes that this will be enough. Enough to satisfy their captors, enough to buy them time. 

     More memories rush by, some lingering. They all involve interfacing, the twins tangled together in a brightly colored heap of limbs and love. Ratchet finally understands that Sideswipe is relying on these memories to gather enough charge to overload. He suspects that Sideswipe also hoped it would stimulate Ratchet’s body so the damage to his interfacing components might be less. 

     Ratchet doesn’t experience even a bit of arousal from any of the memories. However, after awhile, he learns to take comfort in the twins’ love for one another. The twins are not often affectionate with one another in the company of the other Autobots, but here in the privacy of Sideswipe’s memories, are hundreds of loving touches, words, and actions. Ratchet focuses on these things instead of the passion and lust. 

     Time passes. Ratchet isn’t sure how long it takes, but eventually Sideswipe’s protective shield around Ratchet’s spark wavers. He begins to slowly sink back into his frame, receiving flickers of the ache in his optics, the screaming agony of his knees. The stretch and burn within his valve is one of the last things he experiences, as if Sideswipe is doing everything possible to spare him that particular sensation. In comparison to Ratchet’s other injuries, however, it is nothing, barely registering on his pain scale. He shares this with Sideswipe, relieved that he can honestly say he’s fine. 

     The response from Sideswipe is disturbing. He pulses a prickly ball of _shockdisgustanger,_ following it with hazy images. They are more memories; only minutes old, of Sideswipe’s lips pressing against Ratchet’s, his fingers pressing into Ratchet’s valve. 

     Sideswipe pushes this at Ratchet and then draws back, giving Ratchet the impression of expectant belligerence. 

     The frontliner is trying to provoke Ratchet, he realizes. Sideswipe _wants_ to be yelled at, shoved away. 

     Ratchet can’t. He doesn’t think he could ever push Sideswipe away. Instead, he projects a soothing wave of _loveacceptancelove_ , wishing there were enough words to even begin to explain everything he is feeling right now.

     Mostly, he’s _grateful;_ grateful that Sideswipe has done nothing but protect Ratchet. He’s shielded the very core of Ratchet, showed him a love that Ratchet never expected to experience in all his lifetimes. He doesn’t know how to even begin to repay Sideswipe for this gift. 

     Ratchet shares all this, trying to get Sideswipe to understand that Ratchet’s love for him has become even stronger, not destroyed as Sideswipe fears. 

     Ratchet feels Sideswipe’s incredibility, his refusal to believe that Ratchet has already forgiven him. 

     Sideswipe’s control slips again. An agonized keen pierces Ratchet’s audials, startling him. More sound rushes in, the yelling and cheering of the Decepticons surrounding them. He does his best to ignore the noise and encouragements, instead focusing on best supporting Sideswipe in his turmoil. 

     The end is in sight, and Sideswipe is both fighting his overload and yearning for it. He’s a hedonist at spark, loving to both give and receive pleasure. His body is hardwired to push towards completion, that sweet rush of overload coursing through his frame. Sideswipe is currently cursing himself, self-hatred swirling through him at the unavoidable evidence that he is deriving pleasure from an unwilling partner. 

     Sideswipe’s spark twists and flails against Ratchet’s, alternatively surging forward and backing away. Ratchet doesn’t know how to help; every pulse of reassurance and comfort is immediately rejected. 

     His frame becomes more of his own again with every passing second. It makes Ratchet cling that much tighter to Sideswipe’s spark; his realm of safety is quickly shrinking to the points where they are merged. He’s not ashamed to admit that he would much rather hide in the familiarity of Sideswipe’s presence than face whatever is coming after. 

     Sideswipe moans wretchedly, the sound echoing in Ratchet’s audial. His shaky ventilations bathe the side of his Ratchet’s neck, whispered words rising to tug at Ratchet’s spark. 

     “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry… can’t… _fuck_ , I _can’t_ …” Sideswipe cries softly. And then as Sideswipe’s rhythm stutters, becoming more erratic: “ _Primus_!  Need you, Sunny _, help me_!”

     Once more, Ratchet feels Sideswipe’s spark strengthen and echo. It had been Sunstreaker earlier, Ratchet realizes, when Sideswipe had first faltered. Sideswipe had reached out to his twin, just as he is doing now, and Sunstreaker had shored his brother up, giving him what he had needed to continue.

     On a whim, Ratchet reaches out, deep into Sideswipe and out to the other side. Ratchet encounters another presence there, one that he surmises to be Sunstreaker based on the way they feel so similar to one another. Their connection is as tightly woven as his and Sideswipe’s sparks, and intrigued, Ratchet tries to get a better look at how they are still linked while being physically separated. 

     Before he can get closer however, Ratchet feels a flash of startled acknowledgement. He’s clasped in a warm grip and carefully but firmly pushed back. He’s released in a gentle caress, much like a light breeze at the ocean’s edge. As Sunstreaker reluctantly retreats, he leaves behind a sense of exhaustion and lingering frustration.  

     And a brother that is a whirling vortex of negative emotions, almost painful in its intensity. 

     Sideswipe had overloaded, Ratchet realizes, feeling the tell-tale molten heat deep inside his valve. 

     Sideswipe ex-vents shakily. “Ratch…” he begins and trails off. His spark speaks the rest: guilt, regret, shame. 

     Ratchet pulses back love and forgiveness, but instinctively knows Sideswipe isn’t in the right processor to accept it. Ratchet’s correct; he feels Sideswipe shy away, unable to completely let go of their spark exchange, but cringing as if expecting retribution. 

     Then the merge suddenly strengthens, Sideswipe tensing with a strut-shaking rumble. Their link is flooded with rage, and it’s the only warning Ratchet gets before heavy hands clamp down atop Ratchet’s shoulders. 

     “Well done,” Megatron praises. Ratchet can hear the smirk from here. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who recorded that for… private viewing… at a later time.” 

     Megatron’s fingers lightly sweep across Ratchet’s collar faring, claws tracing armor seams. Ratchet shudders at the contact, so unwelcome after Sideswipe’s protective touch.

     “I did what you said. Now let him go,” Sideswipe demands, shifting so that his depressurizing spike slips out of Ratchet’s valve. Warm liquid overflows the edge, trickling down to pool under his aft. 

     Sideswipe remains crouched over Ratchet, their sparks still connected by the thinnest of tendrils. Ratchet’s spark strains upward to maintain the connection; he’s suddenly terrified to lose it, to go back to the pain and uncertainty of before. Almost absently, Sideswipe pulses slow, gentle waves of comfort and reassurance into Ratchet as response. 

     “Hmm. I don’t know; that was pretty impressive. He took that so well, all quiet and accommodating. The crew are now even more eager for a taste,” Megatron says, tone full of mirth. 

     “You bastard,” Sideswipe says flatly, hooking his hands under Ratchet’s shoulders and pressing closer. “You’re not going to get away with this, you slagger. We’re going to _destroy_ you,” Sideswipe promises, growl distorting the words into something barely recognizable. 

     “You’ll get your chance,” Megatron promises. “Now. If you don’t mind, there are some others who would like to have their turn.”

     “No! Get your hands off me!” Sideswipe shouts, and Ratchet feels the frontliner’s frame jerk. They’re pulling on him, Ratchet realizes, trying to yank Sideswipe away. 

      The Decepticons roar their approval as unfamiliar hands wiggle between Sideswipe’s frame and his own. There’s cursing and shouting, the whine of overworked cooling fans, and the screech of metal against metal as Sideswipe struggles to hold on. 

      But there is only one of Sideswipe and far too many Decepticons present. They eventually manage to pull Sideswipe away, the frontliner promising death threats the entire time. 

      Ratchet wails, his spark bereft, when their merge is finally torn asunder. He struggles as well, pain rising as his injuries protests the movement. 

      “He’s quite protective of you, isn’t he?” Megatron murmurs, his lipplates brushing against Ratchet’s audial. “There’s three against one, and he’s still… oops, and now one’s down,” Megatron chuckles as a pained scream echoes through the room. Ratchet hears the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor and is perversely satisfied.  

      Sideswipe’s spitting curses and grunting with effort, but the sounds of struggling are moving towards the cell blocks. There’s another echoing bang and then the sound of the energy bars reactivating. 

      Moments later, Ratchet’s spark goes cold; even over the roar of the crowd, Ratchet can hear the repetitive sizzle of an energy weapon striking plating. At first, he thinks they managed to hold Sideswipe down and flog him. But then Ratchet focuses on the murmurings of awe among the Decepticons and realizes it is something else entirely.  

     Its Sideswipe throwing himself against the bars, again and again, too frenzied to even feel the damage he is causing himself.

     There’s another pained scream accompanied by a loud splash, and Sideswipe begins howling words that Ratchet can no longer make out. 

     He can barely hear Sideswipe now, even as the frontliner screams his rage. Instead, all Ratchet can hear are too many voices creeping closer, accompanied by the multitude of hands pawing across his frame. As he shrinks away from the touches, his spark winds down tight, shielding himself with the memory of Sideswipe’s spark dancing against his. 

     He prays to Primus that it will be enough to see him through whatever comes next. 

 

~ End  



End file.
